A swirl of fabric, and the dark cloak falls to the ground. He stares, a name forming in his throat. It is not-- it cannot be her, wed these last hundred years and dead for many, gone forever beyond his reach. How alike they appear upon first glance, though a second look banishes all likeness between them! But one moment of illusion is enough.

Memory is a strange thing. It can skip past long days, months, even years, but it stores some moments and replays them vividly, in colours as bright as fire on the hearth. And so he remembers the careless music of her laughter, the sharp glance of her eyes, and her long dark hair streaming behind her as they raced through the woods of Aman and the lights mingled in the sky above them.

They said that she had passed through Gorgoroth, where few had entered and fewer had survived. He can well believe it of her-- skilled and hardy, with a hunter's grace and a warrior's skill. She would have ridden forward fearlessly, defying the predators in the valleys and the monsters in the shade. She was defiance embodied, and she yearned for freedom.

Freedom-- and that was why he had been loath to speak, for to do so would be to cage her and to bind her to his doom. He had seen the great eagles soaring against the sun, wild and glorious, and their beauty lay in their wildness. He would not take that from her, nor lead her to destruction. To remember must be enough. Yet while he forbore, another had not; she had flown from bright cage to dark web, and so had been destroyed before his own end came. Because he had watched from afar, and stayed silent.

Too late, always too late, and that is the cruel irony of his life: to make the wrong choice, over and over again, and only realize it when it was too late. He will not do so again. The wild swan has flown off with his heart, so he will comfort himself with a lesser bird-- and if this glimmering shade of a maiden is a poor substitute for her fire, still he can dream.

"Luthien of Doriath, on behalf of myself and my brother, I bid you welcome."

I find this fortress fair.

Himring, they call it, Ever-cold. And so it is now, its stark ungraceful walls squatting amid the snow, its brutally functional towers devoid of all ornamentation save the glittering frost. This is no city of luxury, but a harsh place in a harsh land.

Some would call it ugly, seeing only its lack of grace when compared to such realms as Doriath and Gondolin. Himring is not beautiful as these others are-- it was not made to be.

It can be described in one short word, a word also true of its strong-willed lord.

Protector.

"Return, then, to the justice of the Valar!"

Justice? The Valar care little for justice.

Sometimes I wonder if they even knew those they had condemned. Did they know of Macalaurë's sorrow? Did they know of Tyelcormo's unrequited love for two women, love that festered into grief and anger? Proud Carnistir, gifted Atarinkë, still-innocent Ambarussa-- my brothers, my family.

Arafinwë's folk were no less guilty than we; but they were spared simply because they grovelled before the Valar, whereas we are cursed forever, because we would not submit.

The justice of the Valar is a jest. So I refuse it.

Most Amanyar are like sheep, living in the pasture without ever knowing the wide world beyond, blindly following the shepherd. Obedient, servile, they never seemed to question that they were lesser than the spirits who ruled them.

(In this they are remarkably like you Edain, who think that to fear a god is virtue.)

All save one: the rebel, whose spirit burned like fire, whose words kindled the hearts of his people. He was the god-defier, and for this he was cursed, and his kin also: doomed to utter ruin and darkness.

He is not forgotten. We honour him still.

One for the high airs of Manwë, one for Ulmo's deep waters, and one for the green earth, beloved of Aulë and Kementári, which nurtures us, Galadriel had said. Three rings, for three wielders, and the three elements they should command. Three, and no more. Earth, Air, and Water. He would have done as she wished, but for a faint memory which he still nurtures—the memory of fire.

Disjointed words, confused images—those are the recollections of his earliest days. But he remembers the orange heat of the forges, and his grandfather's strong arms holding him. He remembers a laugh like the ring of steel, and a red gem pressed into his small hand. Is it not beautiful, Tyelperinquar?

Two rings lie on the table—one of silver and diamond, the other of sapphire and gold. A third is unfinished, and on this ring he has laboured longest. Beside it rest two jewels: an emerald, and a ruby which shines as if with a living flame. He hesitates no longer, but takes the ruby and sets it into the ring. Fire, to kindle hearts and hopes.

"I name you Narya, and you shall be the greatest of the Three."

A/N: AU, written for the silwritersguild challenge on LJ. What might have happened had Haleth stayed in Thargelion. Haleth/Caranthir.

He'd invited her to stay in his land, moved by some impulse he'd never had.

She had been silent for a long moment. And she said yes, the wild east-woman who led those who remained of her kin. "But I will not be in your debt," she said, and it was less a question than a statement. "There will be no talk of lord or vassal between us. My people are free."

"Take what is offered freely," he had replied, intrigued at this directness of speech and manner. None had addressed him thus brusquely in long years-- he who had been a prince of the Noldor and was now lord of Thargelion. "Your folk will come to no harm."

So things should have ended-- but as the year waned he found his ways taking him ever closer to the dwellings of the Haladin, and he came at last to her house. She did not seem surprised, and said only, "You are here." He had found no words to answer her. He spent a year there, under the sky and the roofs of the Edain, and roamed the lands with her.

He was due to return in the spring; and one evening he spoke suddenly, and pressed a ring of wood into her hand, and in the firelight and the sunset it gleamed golden. "Haleth," he said, "I--"

And she replied, "Yes."

They were wed that winter, the first union of Elda and Adan upon Arda's face, and he knew that there were many of the Eldar who scoffed at him and laughed behind their hands. See, see the lord of the Feanorians who took a barbarian woman to wife! Surely the curse of madness has descended upon him! And he found that he did not care.

But now... truly had Finrod spoken, that such unions could only be bought with great anguish and grief, for his lady lay dying now in his arms, of no ailment save the weight of years, and he was powerless to aid her. Her breathing was laboured, and her wrinkled withered hand grasped his weakly. She had aged, and he was still young, and this seemed to him an injustice intolerable.

"Carnistir," she breathed, naming him in his native tongue.

"Hush," he told her. He kissed her on the brow. She took a rattling breath and was still.

With a remoteness he'd never thought himself capable of, he laid her still-warm body upon the green grass, and covered it with his cloak. He heard again the thousand jeering voices mocking him for inviting this pain upon himself, for giving his love to one who would die in mere decades, and leave him with not even the hope of a reunion in Mandos. He will regret it one day, when she is old and ugly and dying, you'll see!

Never, he replied in his thought. He knew that he must return now to the blood and death of the northern wars, bearing the memory of her and of their time together, the only perfection in a marred world. And perhaps one day they would meet again, despite the doom of the Valar, despite even the designs of Eru.

He lived on hope.